Chennai Journal; Dateline: Bay of Bengal, South India:
I had awoken earlier than usual. The people next-door set off cherry bombs in celebration of some Tamil holiday. It was still relatively cool outside (80’s), so I decided to go down to the beach (Bay of Bengal) and watch the sun rise. What I witnessed was timeless, almost biblical.
A fishing boat was about to leave for work. I noticed the silhouettes of an unusually large number of people, all clustered around an open skiff, against the rapidly brightening eastern sky. As I approached with my camera, nobody paid me much mind. All were busy loading their nets and gear. The light was amazing! It had an almost surreal quality to it; one, I had previously seen only once before in re-print (bookmark) Bible scenes the impoverished German country priest had given us kids in an effort to tack our imaginations in a proper direction. This particular one, of course, was the one depicting St. Peter braving the storm on the slats of his own boat while fishing the Sea of Galilee.
Each sailor knew exactly what to do. Each had performed is assigned ritual countless times before – same as his father and his fathers before him had done. It seemed like absolutely nothing had changed in this routine since the dawn of time. Though I had seen motor-driven skiffs along this particular beach about a year ago, this boat had no modern accoutrements save for the brief glint of the occasional GPS-equipped cell phone. Even the nets were of ancient hemp and not of the razor blue plastic distributed in the thatch-roof fishing villages by the Dutch after the tsunami.
Finally, after everything had been checked, re-checked and loaded; the rudder and oars attached; the sailors in their places, it was time to push off. Now, they waited for the wave that would float them. A tangle of brown brawn was poised along the hull like netting, prepared to push the boat out to sea. The oars were set, and time stood still.
Sand crabs went on about their business as usual, flitting in and out of the holes of their own making. Finally, the anticipated wave rolled in (sending them scurrying) - followed by another. The men shouted and pushed; pushed and shouted. Reluctantly, the craft freed itself from the sandy grip of shore. The rowers rowed desperately. And before long they were out of shouting range. They had entered their water world to which they all carried well-worn keys.
Some were left behind with instructions to meet them again later that day. Hopefully today’s catch will validate their effort. Hopefully, the well-dressed middle men who will have come down from the city to certify their labor will be pleased and throw them something extra along with the normal reduction of debt incurred by unspeakable vices. But all this is forgotten at sea where only enough leeway exists for God and man to rub shoulders without chafing; where man’s habitual vanity needs be restrained and twisted into a sequestered knot; where only one intimate dance at a time is allowed and both partners can be assured of salvation.
Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com
Chennai Journal; Dateline: Bay of Bengal, South India:
